by Aileen Fish
Nigel’s gaze followed. “Yeah.” They walked in silence down the middle of the street. “I hesitate to mention this—”
“But that won’t stop you.”
“No,” he said. “Gertrude.”
John wanted to break his nose a second time. But he growled. “What about her?”
“She might know something of your wife’s activities.”
John stopped and spun, facing Nigel. “What the hell could she know? How much flour Elizabeth put into the bread she baked?”
“Be fair, John. You know what we’re up against.” God, how he wished he didn’t.
“You’ve got to ask.”
“Yeah.” The breath left his body with that one word. He’d have to ask.
~*~
Bernadette wrapped her arms around Cornelius, laid her cheek against the back his shoulder. Ignoring her, he faced the mirror and slowly peeled the heavy beard from his jaw.
“Do you think that’s wise, darling? What if someone happened by?”
“It itches,” he snapped.
She pushed away from him. “Cornelius, we must be careful. The Williams woman was arrested this morning.”
Startled, he jerked his eyes to hers, the fake hairpiece hanging from half of his face. “For what?” This was a disaster. Or was it?
Her pretty face wrinkled into a grimace. “Spying. It seems we were not the only ones after little Gertrude’s interesting pictures. Elizabeth Williams went directly to the source, however.”
He turned back to the mirror. “How so?”
“She was caught going through the maps. The new ones.”
There were new ones. “Ones our little friend hadn’t seen yet? How interesting. Perhaps we should shift our focus.”
“I don’t know Cornelius. I think we should leave. Mrs. Williams hasn’t struck me as an imbecile.”
He ripped the rest of the beard away with an impatient hand. Pulled the gray hair off the top of his head and dropped them on a small table and tugged Bernadette into his arms. “Darling. All we need do is get the last of what Williams has completed to Archie and we are home free.”
She shivered in his arms. “We could be killed for what we are doing.”
“The payoff will set us up for life.”
“I’m scared.”
His temper snapped. He snatched her by her upper arms and shook her. “Just keep your head. We’ve done all right so far, haven’t we?” He spun her about and slapped her derriere. “How about dinner?”
~*~
“Why is the house so cold? This isn’t what we usually eat for dinner. Where is Jillian? Elizabeth?” Her voice turned sly. “My mother.”
Trudy’s questions fired like an automatic rifle without the need to reload.
“No one’s been home all day. If you don’t like it, don’t eat it. In jail, right where she belongs.” The words spewed out, and he felt himself flinch at her “my mother” taunt.
“What’s going to happen to her?” The hysterical pitch jerked him from his fog of anger.
“She’ll hang just as she deserves.” Bitterness burned his tongue followed quickly with regret. Trudy was too young to hear such things. But life was harsh. She’d have to learn at some point.
She jumped up, knocking her chair to the floor. “I didn’t mean it. I didn’t mean it.”
He barely had time to note how pale her face had gone when she threw herself into his arms. He tightened his hold around her. “Trudy, honey. It’s not your fault.” She was so tiny, he feared crushing her. “What didn’t you mean?” he asked gently as he stroked her hair. Nigel was right, perhaps she’d seen something. His heart broke a little more, proving just how precious life was.
Her tears soaked his shoulder, her body shook violently. “I-I didn’t mean it, Daddy. I promise.”
The fear dipped deep in his belly. “What, Trudy? Tell me.”
“You can’t kill her.”
He swallowed, as the words sunk in. “I’m not going to kill her,” he whispered. It was true. Perhaps not by his own hand, but Elizabeth would die if she were found guilty. There weren’t long drawn out trials for treason during war. The thought sickened him. He pulled in a deep gulp of air. “Tell me.”
“I told her I hated her. That I wished she was dead.” Her sobs heaved, stealing her breath.
He took her by the arms and shook her, just a little. Her cries slowed into hiccups. “Trudy. If Elizabeth dies, it will not be because you wished it so. Do you understand? She did something terrible. She sided with the enemy. Gave them crucial information. She was caught last night.”
“That man that came here? In the middle of the night?”
“Yes. He found her going through the drawings in my office.” He hugged her to him again. “It was wrong of her. She pretended to care for us. Instead, she used us. I know it’s difficult to understand.”
“But why can I look at your pictures and she can’t?”
He frowned. “You were looking at my pictures,” he said slowly. “Were you mimicking them?”
“I like those little hiding places you drew by the rivers. And...and the caves.” She squirmed in his arms. “I thought it was funny how you put the little marks in red and blue.”
“Little marks...” His voices trailed. She’d copied the red and blue marks. The ones that showed the North and South, their strengths, weaknesses. He reached back in his memory, her head bent over her sketch pad as they talked about nothing in particular, day after day. “Did you show your pictures to Elizabeth?”
She frowned. “Just that one night when she said she couldn’t draw a straight line. She didn’t care if I could draw good or not. Not like Mrs. Babbage.”
He thought of Elizabeth’s reaction in learning Trudy had been at his shop. “Elizabeth didn’t know you were visiting me, did she?”
Trudy’s head fell. “No.”
“Why not?” Another thought occurred. “And if you weren’t at school, then...where were you—” He shook his head. “Let me start over.” He lifted her chin. “I need answers, my sweet. Truthful answers.” He pierced her with a stern look.
After a bout of silence she nodded.
“Where were you when you were supposed to be at school?”
Her bottom lip trembled, her eyes evaded his.
“Trudy,” he said sharply.
“Sometimes, I went down to the creek, then I would sneak back into the house and into my room. Elizabeth never goes in my room. Then when she and Jillian were making bread and dinner, I would come to see you.”
“Why was she upset?”
“I was supposed to be at the church.” Her voice had dropped to a whisper.
That confused him. “Why?”
Her eyes turned defiant. “I was mad that you married Elizabeth and at the wedding...” She faltered.
“Go on.”
Her head fell again. “She caught me stealing.”
His eyes narrowed. “Stealing what?”
“Money. She said she wouldn’t say anything. That I had to stop. But Mrs. Babbage walked in and said I should pay testitution—”
“Restitution?”
She shrugged.
“How were you to pay?”
“By spending time at the chapel. Elizabeth was mad because I didn’t go to the church like Mrs. Babbage suggested.”
“You must always pay your debts, Trudy.”
She nodded. “I started going after that. Mrs. Babbage was nice and pretty. Prettier than Elizabeth. She gave me sweets and she loved my pictures. She would sit and try to draw too. But...”
The hair on his arms rose. “But?”
“One day they thought I was gone and Mr. Babbage came in. His white hair was gone. It was black. He wanted to see Mrs. Babbage’s pictures. He yelled at her.” Her breaths grew rapid. “I was afraid, Papa. I thought he was going to hit Mrs. Babbage. I snuck out and ran away as fast as I could.”
“What was he angry about?”
“He said her drawings weren’
t as good as mine. He wanted her to get mine. He said they could sell them.”
The man wore a disguise and wanted to sell Trudy’s sketches? He swallowed again as another more dire image began to take shape. “Trudy, how do you truly feel about Elizabeth?” His voice came out husky.
Tears welled up. “I don’t want her to die. I think...I think I like her.” She shrugged again. “A little.”
“I think I do too,” he said. “What say, I fetch her home?” If it wasn’t too late for her to forgive him.
Her tears fell when she nodded. “I’ll try to be better. Nicer.”
He tugged her to him. “So will I.” He set her away from him. “Can you do me a favor? Go to Jillian. Stay with her and her papa until I come for you. Can you do that?”
“Yes, Papa.”
“Don’t leave them, Trudy. Go. I’ll be home soon.”
~*~
“John.” His name came out of Nigel’s mouth in a huff of exasperation. “I know the difficulty of accepting that your wife is a spy is devastating. But be reasonable. I caught her. She had her hand in the cookie jar, so to speak.”
John was beating his head up against a brick wall. While Nigel had the option of his aggravation, John sat on the settee in the parlor holding Trudy’s sketch book. The same shabby parlor in which he Trudy and Elizabeth spent their evenings, building something wonderful. The main difference at the moment, though, was the absence of his wife and daughter.
“Fine,” John said. “Say that everything was as you saw it. But look at this.” He held out the book.
Nigel ripped it from his hands and began thumbing through it. John held his tongue, knowing the exact page that would stop Nigel in his tracks. “Dear God,” he breathed, dropping into the chair closest to the hearth. “Her eye for detail would rival that of Gustave Courbet.”
John chuckled. “Incredible, isn’t it.”
“You say Trudy told you the minister’s wife loved her drawings?”
“Don’t forget the little disguise he’s been sporting.”
“Do you suppose Elizabeth is working with them?”
John bit back irritation, ignoring the Elizabeth-comment. “He also said they could sell her drawings.” He leaned forward and rested his forearms on his thighs.
“I’ll agree, it warrants talking with your wife.” Nigel slammed the book shut. “We can go in the morning.”
John should have been satisfied with that, but his agitation refused to subside, blossoming into a surge of panic. His hands clenched and unclenched, the ball of his foot on the floor, heel tapping, incessantly. If Nigel refused to go to the jail, he’d go without him. Waiting another day was out of the question. He’d wager his dying breath Elizabeth was not a spy.
And if she was...hell, he’d send her out of the country. Somewhere safe. He would not be party to her death.
John hit the door. “Let’s go.”
Chapter 15
A feminine lilt stirred Elizabeth from the short respite she’d managed. Surprised she’d managed even a wink of sleep, she glanced up at the window. Dark again. She wondered what time it was. Close to morning, once again, she’d guess.
Sheriff Answell’s short grunt sounded through the open door. The only place from where the heat filtered in. It hardly penetrated her numbed extremities.
The tinkled laughter seemed ill-fitted for a cold jail, most especially in the wee early morning hours. Though Elizabeth had shifted as close to the heat as her confinement allowed, she still could not see whom the sheriff spoke to or discern her soft murmurs. Her nose, however, picked up the scent of freshly brewed coffee. A heady strength that made her mouth water. A longing so fierce, she grew dizzy.
The light from Sheriff Answell’s office darkened, and it took Elizabeth a moment to realize she hadn’t fainted. Instead, was blocked by a figure in a full skirt. With the light behind, Elizabeth couldn’t make out the color.
She rushed forward. “Oh, my dear, how are you?”
Elizabeth blinked. “Bernadette?”
“Yes. Oh, Elizabeth. I came as soon as I heard.” Her breathy declaration was welcome, though odd words, given how small the community.
“What are you doing here?”
A crash sounded from the other room. Bernadette barely flinched.
Alarmed, Elizabeth froze. “Did Sheriff Answell fall—has he been drinking?” The man was old. Very old. “Bernadette, could the man’s heart have failed?”
Bernadette stopped. “Yes. Yes, it could,” she said, turning back.
Elizabeth shuddered. What was Bernadette doing here?
Less than a moment later she returned, holding a mug.
“Is that—” The words came out unsteady. She was so cold.
“Coffee. Steaming coffee.” Bernadette held it out.
Elizabeth gripped the cup with both hands, terrified of dropping it. A burst of shaky laughter erupted.
“What is it? Don’t you want it?”
Frustrated tears filled her eyes. “You cannot imagine how badly. But I can’t drink it for the jail bars.”
“Oh, of course.” Bernadette held up a ring of keys encircling her wrist.
Elizabeth couldn’t find the strength to care that Bernadette even had them in her possession. She wanted that coffee. With concerted effort, Bernadette managed to fit the proper key in the lock and turn.
“I’ll hold your cup until you come out.”
“Oh, I couldn’t possibly leave.”
“But—”
Elizabeth stepped in front of the open cell door and accepted the steaming brew from Bernadette, careful not to leave her confinement. She sipped the bitter brew, relishing the burn down her throat. “Thank you, Bernadette. I don’t know what brought you by, but thank you. I fear I’ll never be warm again.” She meandered back to her single cot.
“Don’t you wish to escape?”
Bernadette’s gaping mouth, the robust fragrance, and the delicious hot liquid left Elizabeth overwhelmed with a dizzying sensation. She dropped down on her small bed with a silly urge to giggle. She couldn’t remember a time in her life she’d giggled. Giggling was for mindless debutantes with nothing more important than flirting and landing their male counterparts for a loveless marriage.
Her fingers tingled, and oddly, her body flashed a sensation of heat. She twisted her head, up to the window, now straight above. Yes, still open. She could hear the howling wind. She should be freezing. She sipped more, but then the cup slipped from her fingers and she laughed. She clamped a hand over her mouth and shook the fog from her brain.
“Come, Mrs. Williams, we are here to assist you.”
She blinked, her reactions somewhat sluggish, as if she swam through molasses in full skirts. She angled her head on Bernadette but a tall man stood in her stead. One that seemed familiar yet she was unable to place. “But I don’t wish to leave.” She grinned. “For the first time in an age, I feel...warm. I wish to sleep.”
“Cornelius, I told you this was a terrible idea.” Bernadette’s voice penetrated, snapping at the man.
“Cornelius?” Elizabeth squinted, trying to focus. “Cornelius is old. And you are not old.” She laughed, a peal that sounded nothing like her practical self. “Your hair isn’t white and bushy. Are you certain you are Cornelius?” She tried shifting her gaze to Bernadette, but couldn’t find her, so sent her gaze back to the tall man. The laughter bubbled up her chest again and escaped. “It’s dark and...” She cocked her head. “...and thin.” She gasped and pointed. “Why, you, are almost...bald.”
He moved so quickly her eyes failed to keep up. She blinked and he was suddenly towering over her. She had the vague notion she should be frightened, but it slipped away. A powerful burning sensation gripped her upper arm and she glanced down.
“You’re hurting me.” She felt more amazed than in pain. “Rather—” She glanced at him. “You are trying to hurt me.”
“You mustn’t sleep, Elizabeth. We are here to help you.”
Eliz
abeth smiled, her eyes drooping. “Thank you, Bernadette. You’ve helped tremendously already. I was awfully cold.” Her body began sliding to one side.
The grip on her arm tightened. “You don’t seem to understand Mrs. Williams. We are inspired to help you.” His tone lifted into the charismatic pitch she recognized from her nondescript nuptials.
She smiled. “Now I recognize you. But where did your full head of hair and heavy beard make off to?”
“Come, we must hurry.”
“No. No, I couldn’t possibly leave. If I do, John will truly believe that I have betrayed him and Trudy.” She fell back against the cold wall, banging her head. “I should rather be shot than put my new family in danger.”
His face morphed into something—had she been more afraid—monstrous. But he would not hurt her. He was the minister. A man of God.
“Thank you for trying to help me. But I must insist on remaining.” She glanced down at her hands then the floor. “Oh, dear. I would not mind a bit more coffee, if you could—”
His hand landed against her cheek. Without the strength to tense, her face went with the blow, scraping her opposite cheek against the roughened wall. It throbbed with a fiery sensation.
She heard a gasp, but it didn’t seem to be her own. “Bernadette?” she called softly.
“I’m terribly sorry, Elizabeth. Cornelius has a bit of a temper, I’m afraid” she whispered.
“Mrs. Williams. Of course we understand your predicament, but you see, Miss Gertrude needs you. We must save her. You do realize there are rebels in the area?” The voice speaking was deep, not that of Bernadette’s melodious intonation.
A vague recollection of Papa’s kitchen stole through her mind. She raised her fingers to a dampness on the side of her face, wondering what on earth it could be. She wasn’t crying. She hadn’t the strength. “You won’t let them touch her. Please, don’t let them touch her.”
“No, Mrs. Williams. I have no intention of allowing such a monstrosity. You see, they prefer you to a child of eight.”